


Indulge the Other

by Merytsetesh



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Molestation, No Sex, Non-Consensual Touching, Other, POV Second Person, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-10-30 17:37:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17833094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merytsetesh/pseuds/Merytsetesh
Summary: The Tyrants are intelligent enough to be given orders and targets, but do they understand personhood? Do they have their own thoughts and desires? Mr. X's understanding of the world and his mission is simple. The line between human and monster, where he ends and the virus begins, is unimportant. The only duality that matters to Mr. X is dead or alive. But he knows that he is the hunter, and the small, soft thing trapped in the police station with him is prey. What to do with it is another matter.





	1. Soft

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [What Holds A Ladder To A Wall?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17615408) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



“I do know that for the sympathy of one living being, I would make peace with all. I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.”

― Mary Shelley, _Frankenstien_

  

Soft, you think when you see it. It looks…soft.

Only that’s not quite right.

It is armed with a knife that it wields like a single, long claw, and armored to protect its vital organs, but in between are places that are pink and fleshy. Yielding.

Soft.

You see it, and know that it is not your target, the smaller, even softer prey you are meant to retrieve. But you chase it instead.

It looks soft, but it is not weak. It fights, thrashing in your grip, as if your fingers are not like iron shackles. It is clever, too, not mindless like the lesser ones you shove out of your way that burst like overripe fruit upon impact. It blinds you to escape, falling from your grasp when you recoil to shield your eyes. Afterwards your vision is clouded with bright spots, but you can still hear its quick footsteps moving away. That’s fine. It is fast, but you are relentless. You do not need food or water. You do not know exhaustion.

But you do know hunger.

 

You corner it later. You could hear the rabbit-fast beat of its heart from where it hides, and it is nothing to smash your fist through the wood and drag it out into the open. It tried to hide from you, the way it did from the licking ones, staying quiet so that you would pass by, but you are a superior weapon. You can track it by the sounds of its panting breath, the scent of fresh blood from where the teeth of the others have tried to claim it first. 

It kicks at your wrist, but stops when you grab it by the throat, the place your eyes had been drawn to earlier. It's just as soft as you imagined. Here the skin is thin, the blood so close to the surface you can feel the heat of it even through your gloves. You didn't expect it to feel so warm, this soft, delicate thing. This is the real difference between it and you. Not the softness, but the warmth.

It's struggling less now. Without realizing you had lifted it clear off the ground, letting it dangle by your grip on its throat. The noises it makes are quieter, too, air whistling through its gaping red mouth. It cannot breath. This is how you have killed targets before, choking the life from their lungs, or crushing the tiny bones in their necks. 

This time, you pull it close to your body, letting its weight be supported by your own bulk and your arm around its middle. You keep your hand on its neck, but slide it around to the back, where the hair begins at the base of its skull. With the slightest pressure you could dig in your fingers, let the brain matter pop out like a cracked egg. You do not. Instead, you watch the way your fingers part its shaggy hair.

Now able to breath again, its struggles resume, but you have it pinned. Its limbs cannot squirm free to reach for the blinding weapon is used before, or even the knife that bounces off you, as insignificant as the sting of an insect.

It is so full of life, this small, soft, warm thing. And though you do not understand it, though your mission is to hunt and kill the targets inside this building, you do not want to snuff this one life out. 

For the first time, you  _want_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway inspired by Leon's perspective in "What Holds A Ladder To A Wall?" It made me wonder what was going on in Mr. X's mushy brain, and how much self awareness he has.
> 
> I got a lot of Frankenstein vibes writing this (the original novel and the 1931 film). Like, Mr. X is a reverse Frankenstein's monster. Frankenstein created his creature to be a superior human, and he started out innocent but turned to murder as he became self aware and disillusioned with humanity and his own miserable existence. Mr. X is also innocent in that he is like an animal with no concept of good or evil, only that his purpose is to hunt, but looses his desire to kill everything as he gains autonomy and awareness as others as more than just objects.
> 
> Yeah I'm reading way too much into this. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Might continue this if I figure out how to turn it into monster fucking.


	2. Fragile

You cannot hold onto it forever.

Eventually, you drag it off to a room with only one door. Less avenues of escape, which is how it has slipped past you before, leading you through narrow, crowded rooms where your size is a hindrance and then doubling back. It is smart, this one, using its smaller, faster body to its advantage, but here its maneuverability is useless. You drop it in the corner and set about barricading the door. It's simple work to block it with objects too heavy and bulky for it to move by itself.

With the possibility of escape gone, it rolls to its feet, weapon up and ready. It intends to go down fighting tooth and nail. The bullets impacting your chest sting, but the minor pain is easy enough to ignore. You slap the weapon from its hand, the last shot going wide and ricocheting off the ceiling. 

One weapon gone, it reaches for another: the knife. Teeth bared and snarling, it slashes the air between you, warning you away. 

You pause; not because you couldn't just as easily knock away the knife, breaking its wrist, or crush its hand in your own fist, grinding the blade and bones together; but because this is the first time you've seen it standing still.

For once it's not running away (there is nowhere to go) or fighting you, forcing you to grab it. It's poised to lunge, trembling with fear and exhaustion, but staying in place where it's backed into the corner.

It opens its mouth and speaks.

"What do you want?!"

You understand speech. You were designed this way, to be a superior, smarter class of weapon, a guided missile instead of an indiscriminate grenade. Humans have spoken to you before, shown you pictures of places and individuals and given them names: laboratory, police station, Sherry Birkin. These are the names of your hunting ground and targets. You understand "find" and "retrieve" and "kill." 

You do not understand the question.

It says more, but you do not listen because its words are unimportant. It's getting louder, loud enough that the noise is surely drawing the attention of the others infesting the building. It would be a nuisance to fight them off, to keep your acquired target away from them.

Ignoring the knife, you cover its mouth to stop the yelling. It panics, fingers clawing at your hand where it wraps halfway its skull, muffling its screams. It trashes so wildly it actually manages to slip free. It scrambles away as fast as it can, but your reach is longer. Frustrated, you hit it to make it stop.

It works. Too well. It goes limp.

Is its head supposed to rest at that angle? A human neck can twist to look around, but did the force of your punch connecting push it too far? The bones there are so easy to snap.

You had forgotten how fragile the living are, and you were not made to be gentle. You only intended to make it stop moving away, to keep it close and silent. It is warm, but that means nothing, it takes time for a body to cool.

It is still breathing. When your alarm passes you can still hear its heartbeat, too, slow and steady. It is only stunned, not dead.

But it could have been otherwise. How easy would it have been to hit just a little harder? You have already decided it must stay intact, stay warm and alive, that you must defend it against the others prowling the police station. You did not consider that you must defend it against yourself.

You sit on the ground, pull it carefully into your lap, and wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far Leon has been choked, taken into a barricaded room, almost accidentally suffocated again, and then knocked unconcious. He is a precious cinnamon roll who is too pure for this world and must be protected. But first I'm going to torture him with a giant monster.
> 
> Thank you for the wonderful reception this fic has gotten! I can't promise I'll continue it, I'm writing as I get ideas.


	3. Warm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating and tag change! Heed the warnings.

It hasn't woken up yet.

It sleeps in your arms, oblivious to the danger around it, but soon that will change. Once it regains consciousness, the fight will resume. It will struggle, injuring itself in its desperation to escape or forcing you to hurt it again. You do not want that.

You remove the belt with its pouches and weapons, throwing it across the room and out of sight. It cannot fight if it doesn't have weapons. Unlike you, humans have no natural defenses. They must rely on tools instead. Remove the tools, remove the threat. 

There is nothing to stop you from tearing off its armor, either. Straps rip, buckles snap, and all the hard edges are stripped away, leaving only its clothes, and those might as well have been paper for how easily they tore.

In the dark and filth of the abandoned police station, the human's skin is so shocking bright it practically glows. It is discolored by bruises and smudges of soot, but beneath the grime it appears unmarred and intact. Curious, you examine it with eyes and hands, following every curve of muscle and ridge of bone.

Structurally, you and it are the same: two legs, two arms, a torso, and head. That it where the similarities end. You were built to be bigger and stronger than any man, a behemoth, a juggernaut.

This human is...average, you suppose. It is not particularly large or strong. It is a young adult male in seemingly good health, with none of the notable features you have been programmed to look for when recognizing a target. It looks smaller without the additional layers. Rounder, and the new softness is pleasing. There is not a place you touch that isn't warm and soft and smooth. Your own skin is grey, leathery, and deeply creased, like paper that has been crumpled and then pressed flat again.

Your hand lingers on its wrist, rubbing back and forth over the latticework of bluish veins. Its fingers looks so small compared to yours.

You remove your gloves.

The difference is astonishing. If you thought it was soft before, it is nothing compared to the feeling of bare skin. It is smooth as gunmetal, but supple, and radiating heat. Its mouth has fallen open, and the warm gusts of air brush against your face. When you stick a finger inside it is even warmer and strangely wet. Pressing down you feel the ridges of its dull teeth, the slick muscle of its tongue. When you press deeper it gags, spasming even in its unconscious state. Saliva begins to drip from the corners of its mouth. When it gags again you stop, leery of choking it again. You do not want it to expire.

Taking your explorations elsewhere, you discover it is warmest in its creases, under its arms and between its legs. Both places have short, coarse hair, but the place between its legs has the softest skin yet. There the skin is so thin you can feel its heartbeat, slow and steady with sleep.

Suddenly, there is the distant sound of an explosion, followed by the shrieks and groans of the infected. Somewhere in the police station another target lives. You must eliminate it. 

Regretfully, you consider your captive. It remains limp as a corpse, unmoving but for the hypnotic rise and fall of its naked chest. You must leave, but it will be secure here. It will not take long to locate and kill the other, not with all the noise it is making, as obvious as a neon sign pointing you in the right direction. You deposit the human onto the floor and pull on your gloves. 

You have to dismantle the barricade in order to leave, but you rebuild it on the outside of the door. Even if it awakens and opens the door, it will be confronted with a solid wall of metal debris piled to the ceiling. Satisfied that it will remain in place, you leave to hunt your new target. 

 

When you return the room is empty. A shelf has been toppled over, revealing that the small, high window that was previously hidden behind it is smashed open. You press an ungloved palm to the place where you left your prey, and feel the ghost of its warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut because I honestly don't feel that it fits with this story. I don't think Mr. X has a sex drive, and even if he does he wouldn't know what do to do with Leon anyway. However, I might do an extended version of this scene as a bonus chapter where Mr. X isn't interrupted by Claire blowing shit up with the grenade launcher. Anyway, thank you for all the hits, kudos, and comments! I can't believe how popular this fic has become. 
> 
> This chapter is brought to you by my boyfriend (who pointed out that my Mr. X is basically zombie!Lennie from Of Mice And Men), and this Polygon article: https://www.polygon.com/platform/amp/2019/2/20/18209745/resident-evil-2-leon-s-kennedy-mr-x-sex-symbol


	4. Target

At long last you find it again, far away from your original drop zone. It has infiltrated the underground facility and is running through the greenhouse. It has stolen a viral sample, ( _"first directive: retrieve Sherry-Birkin-G-virus-carrier"_ ) and is escaping. 

You crash through the observation window in a shower of glass. The impact slows you down, giving it time to slip through the exit. The laboratories are a maze of rooms, but you are familiar with most of them. You managed to track it this far; it will not escape you now, not in your own territory. No matter the twists and turns, in the end there is only one place it can go.

By the time you catch up it has nearly reached the lift down to the train platform. You drop down to the floor below, cutting off its path. It skirts around the catwalk to get the handrails between it and you, buying enough time to sprint for the door.

The room is catching fire. Stealing the sample has triggered the self-destruct sequence. Your directive is to retrieve the sample and bring it back to the laboratory. The labs are on fire.

It skids to a stop before a wall of flame. A mere second of hesitation is all you need, and it is caught again. It writhes in you grasp, desperate, but you will not let go. You will not make the same mistake twice. 

Your mission was to eliminate survivors and retrieve the virus. It carries the virus, so you will not eliminate it. Instead you will bring it to the lab and keep it there, safe and intact, and wait for new orders. 

The labs are on fire. 

An explosion staggers you, and it is knocked from your hand. A second explosion damages the suspension bridge, which begins to sag with a loud groan of grinding metal. The human is hanging onto the railing to stay upright.  All you have to do is take one step, reach out to grab it—

More explosions, more flame and smoke. It falls out of sight, and you cannot pursue it as more pipes bursts and you are battered by the conflagration.

You are engulfed in searing heat and pain. Your skin begins to blister and melt like hot wax, peeling away to expose muscle and soft tissue beneath. The power limiter bands on your arms and neck ignite and the metal buckles turn cherry red before the leather finally turns to char. Now that they are gone, it does not take long before the injuries are healed by mutations. Bone begins to jut outward, breaking through skin to form claws. You jaw cracks, breaks into pieces, leaving a gaping maw. One eye was blinded in the fire, but a new one will soon grow to replace it. The fire cannot damage you, only change you. Transformed, you are bigger and stronger than before. You are in agony as your body reshapes itself.

The entire underground complex is shaking apart. Concrete walls crumble, the metal support beams warp. Soon Umbrella Industries and its secrets will be buried under the rubble, leaving behind only a giant sinkhole in the middle of Raccoon City. You do not think of this. You do not think. 

You are hunting something.

Pain and fire are nothing to you. You forge ahead, making a straight line for your prey and emerge from the inferno. You see movement below and jump down, falling to one knee to soften the blow. The metal flooring dents from the impact of your weight. 

It has no where to run, but it tries. It uses the falling debris as a barrier, keeping its distance, but all it takes is one punch and the boulders are pulverized to dust. Eventually, it will tire. You can smell the blood on it. It is wounded and weakening, slowing down as its last burst of energy fades. Soon it will stumble, and then you will fall upon it like a ravenous wolf. 

You will tear away its armor until is it pink and soft and defenseless before you. You will chase the salt of its sweat with your tongue, lick the coppery blood crusted over its wounds. You will listen to the pounding rush of blood in its veins, press its body to your own cold flesh until you have stolen away its warmth for yourself. You had no concept of cold until you touched fire.

Braced on its shoulder is a new weapon.

It takes aim, and fires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end folks! Sorry if you were hoping for a happy ending, but the muse insisted on this being no smut AND canon compliant (which is strange since some of my favorite fics to read are Everybody Lives Nobody Dies Fix It Fics and smut lol). But as out of my comfort zone as this fic was (no smut, no humor, 2nd person POV, present tense), it was really fun to write.
> 
> Mr. X's head is a strange, fascinating place to be. I'm really hoping his evolving self awareness/autonomy was evident in the narrative, especially towards the end when the power limiters break and his POV becomes less coherent, more instinctual.
> 
> Anyway, now that I've finished the real story arc, I can start writing the bonus chapter smut scene lol.


End file.
